


how much was mine to keep

by malfaisant



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:43:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time when Steve’s more awake they will probably have this argument again, more serious, more sincere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how much was mine to keep

**Author's Note:**

> set some time after the second movie.

He loves his job. He loves helping people. Sure, he missed flying at first, as much as a missing limb. The thrill of the sky all around him, the wind roaring past his ears. He never set out to replace it, because he knew from the start that nothing can ever replace seeing the entirety of the far horizon, the glint of white light when the sun catches the curvature of the earth. He will never want to replace it.

But he loves helping people, and he does good work. He’s helping people get their feet back on the ground and just start living again. He has his own nightmares to ward off, his own demons to fight, but even if sometimes he feels like the blind leading the blind, he knows he’s where he’s supposed to be.

Being by Steve’s side is where he’s supposed to be, and he feels this with that same, familiar certainty. Steve is like the sun and the endless sky and he knows that he belongs by his side, knows that Steve doesn’t just trust him—Steve needs him, in ways that even Steve might not know about yet.

And this brings us to our point, which is that Sam really,  _really_  wishes Steve wasn’t so allergic to fucking parachutes.

“It’s not really ridiculous, man. You’re gonna keep jumping out of planes and skyscrapers. What if I’m not there to catch you in time, huh?” Sam says, turning around in bed to face him and tug the covers from Steve’s considerable frame. Captain America: patriotic icon, expert blanket hog.

(He asks the question in mild jest, but he says it with a light-heartedness he doesn’t truly feel. It is a very real fear he will keep hidden for as long as he can, that someday he might  _not_  be in the right place at the right time. Of eyes wide with surprise and fingers slipping through his hands. It only needs to happen once.)

Steve laughs, a small sound muffled against the pillow, as if the idea that there might come a time that Sam won’t be there to catch him was somehow something to laugh at. He’s halfway to sleep, his eyes closed even as he’s smiling, lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. “That won’t ever happen,” he says drowsily. There’s the sound of crinkling paper as he shifts nearer to Sam, _Slaughterhouse-Five_ squashed under his right arm, another in the long line of casualties of Steve’s bedtime reading.

“Maybe I’m getting tired of carrying you around,” says Sam as he gingerly fishes out Vonnegut and sets it on the bedside table. “I’ve been to your exhibit. Do you know how heavy you are?”

“Just think of me as a very colourful training weight.”

"Can they change your serum so you can transform into small you at will? You know, like a compact mode? An extra super power?"

"Go to sleep."

Sam smirks, but does what he says. The doubt will never go away, but he’s able to quell the voices at the back of his mind. Some time when Steve’s more awake they will probably have this argument again, more serious, more sincere. It only needs to happen once.

But if Steve Rogers believes in him, well. It’s simple enough to close his eyes for now, to listen to the sound Steve’s calm, even breaths. It’s enough to be beside him.


End file.
